


Skill Exchange

by Calire



Series: Enemies to Lovers (the long way 'round) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Boarding School, Bullying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jock Gregory Lestrade, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nerd Mycroft Holmes, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28798482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calire/pseuds/Calire
Summary: "While your academic evaluation was excellent, your performance in the gym is very lacking and I'm sure you know the school values your physical health just as much as the intellectual skills. As such you'll have to reach certain goals in order to pass the semester and subsequently the year and your A-levels".Mycroft listens to the gist of it but it doesn't take much deduction skill to figure out that it is not all the professor has to say and the young boy frowns "I doubt you'd need to come find me expressly to tell me this, Professor, does the administration have some specific plans for my situation?", the way the man twitches and turns his ring again tells Mycroft that he is exactly right."A tutor." opens the teacher "Another student who has academic problems instead."
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade
Series: Enemies to Lovers (the long way 'round) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2111442
Kudos: 9





	Skill Exchange

Mycroft appreciates his own intellect, he's smart and well aware of it, he hardly wishes he were different, or closer to the average. He loathes the average more often than not and he doesn't make a mystery of it, which doesn't exactly help him make any friends, not when he's so much younger than all the others in school, he's supposed to be just starting high school and he’s starting uni next year instead.   
Of course he's also pudgy and uncoordinated and he's sure that if a British writer wanted to create a new story about a sad kid in a bad situation at a boarding school, a picture of Mycroft would offer perfectly adequate inspiration material.   
And he loathes the very idea.   
He loathes many things, really.   
Particularly if they have to do with the school.   
It's not as if the teachers haven't tried to help him mix adequately with the older boys and they have even tried to induct him with the younger boys when it comes to more social classes. Suffice to say, it has been a complete disaster.   
With all of this said; Mycroft does, rarely mind you, wish that he'd be able to pass himself off as normal. To be able to pretend even for just a bit that he does care about football, or that he does worry about his grades.   
Just long enough to hold a meaningful conversation instead of hiding in the library and hoping that his tormentors won't find him.   
They will find all possible little ways to annoy him, sit behind him and make noise, take his pencils, stumble into him, trickle water down his shirt collar, steal his clothes when he showers, and every time Mycroft does his best to keep his mouth shut because if he tries to retort they will focus his received pronunciation and go all the way to imply his homosexuality from there.  
It shouldn't bother him as much as it does, there is nothing wrong with it, but they make him feel wrong for it.   
Not that they know he is indeed homosexual. If they did know he surely would end up without a place to sleep and he’s not going to risk that. No way. One night has been enough.

It's been a long day and he just wants to be left alone with his books.   
Apparently that is not to be regardless of his bullies because Mr Wilson, History teacher and supervisor of his dormitory, approaches his table and sits down with an apologetic smile when Mycroft greets him.   
His upper lip and forehead are sweaty and he's fidgeting with the wedding band, it's a bit loose since he lost a bit of weight, his nervousness puts Mycroft on alert and he doesn't hesitate to prod the professor albeit politely "Is something amiss, Professor Wilson?"   
The teacher stares at him for a moment and with a subtle breath he finally stops his restlessness "Not per se, Holmes... not really. I'm sure you are aware we held the meeting for your year’s midterm evaluation. While your academic evaluation was excellent, your performance in the gym is very lacking and I'm sure you know the school values your physical health just as much as the intellectual skills. As such you'll have to reach certain goals in order to pass the semester and subsequently the year and your A-levels".  
Mycroft listens to the gist of it but it doesn't take much deduction skill to figure out that it is not all the professor has to say and the young boy frowns "I doubt you'd need to come find me expressly to tell me this, Professor, does the administration have some specific plans for my situation?", the way the man twitches and turns his ring again tells Mycroft that he is exactly right.  
"A tutor." opens the teacher "Another student who has academic problems instead."  
Mycroft pales at this suggestion and his brain conjures images of the insufferable situation he'll find himself in, all the possibilities for humiliation and shame. It's the cloth his nightmares are made of.  
As if anyone needs Physical Education to graduate, anyways. This is just torture.  
He doesn't let his emotion hijack his brain though and he promptly replies to Wilson "Who is it?" he asks, his voice tight as he struggles to control it and his cheeks go up in flames when he reads the worried look in his teacher's eyes, mixed with something dangerously close to pity.  
The man hesitates again but there's nothing he can do about it now anyway and he just speaks quietly "Lestrade. I know that the two of you have some history..."  
"If you want to put it this way." Mycroft's voice is absolutely glacial and he's steeling himself for what is to come.   
The teachers clearly don't have any regard for his safety or mental health.   
Wilson sighs heavily "I do find it acceptable. He has so much trouble in Latin and Mathematics that I’m not sure why my colleagues insisted he takes them, but his History and Sciences could use some help as well. He does have the brains for all of them, mind you, he’s everything but stupid. He won't be allowed to play in the rugby games if he doesn't keep his grades up and if you don't reach your weekly goals" he holds up a hand before Mycroft can protest "And vice versa you won't be allowed to go to your UN simulations nor partake in the certamen, it's been thought as a way to hold each other accountable"  
"As if the rest of the school cares about the certamen or the simulations as much as it cares about winning the rugby games. Not to mention, must I remind you of the last time I spoke to Lestrade? Or the one before?" Mycroft's tone is pointed and maybe too much so because even kind Professor Wilson takes on a certain sternness "It is not your place to do so, no" he replies firmly.  
Still, after a moment his kindness peeks through again and he explains quietly "The council finds appropriate that you and Mr Lestrade move past your differences and put something on the line that is valuable, as to ensure a proper effort is put in the matter."   
Mycroft is speechless for a moment, he runs all the possible arguments through his mind but they are all lacking when confronted with such idiotic decisions probably based on misunderstood notions of team building and pedagogy.   
"If the council considers sleep deprivation and destruction of property a matter of differences and not the hostile and aggressive mistreatment it is, then I can hardly protest, can I?" He settles for in the end and the professor lets out a heavy sigh.  
"You retorted to that incident without much trouble Holmes, did you not?"  
Mycroft grumbles under his breath and the man just nods "I did recall that to be correct."

Luckily they were not as naive to move either boy from their rooms but of course they heavily implied that it would be wise of them to show cooperation and a reasonable amount of time spent together from the get go.  
As Mycroft found out the rugby coach had been tasked with a similar duty as Professor Wilson and had equally prepared (and threatened, most likely) Lestrade for what is to be the rest of their semester.

Some time after Wilson leaves Mycroft is greeted by Lestrade.  
As they sit down in front of each other neither seems inclined to start the conversation, Mycroft doesn't look away but he's also aware that almost everyone else in the library is watching them.   
Finally he takes the high road and drops the Latin textbook on the table "When was the last time you opened this without relying on some of your mates for the exercises?" he asks drily and while Lestrade glares he knows the question is appropriate "I study the literature bits and write the assignments, Dorner is in charge of the translations" he replies curtly and Mycroft can't help a little smirk "Oh and Dorner dropped Latin this year, this explains how we ended up here" he comments but immediately feels the glare on him "I thought we were here for your inability to run around the block as well."   
Mycroft feels his cheeks heat up and he relents just barely "You can say that tomorrow morning in the gym, now..." he murmurs bringing up the other boy's last translation "Do you remember anything about Plinius the Young from your literature assignments that could help you make sense of the specific words you rather passively translated?" he asks, deciding it would be wise to realize what his level is before they jump in the thick of it.   
And so they worked for the afternoon, throwing jabs at each other at every turn, Mycroft held back from calling him an idiot out of sheer force of will alone and because he is firmly convinced that no one learns when insulted even if they deserve it.

It's dinnertime when they finally leave the library and Mycroft focuses on Lestrade's face  
for a moment, notices the slight squint, the downturn of his lips and the way his shoulders slump under the negligible weight of his bag "Lighten up, Lestrade, there's hope for everybody." he comments with a quirk of his lip but he immediately feels himself wilt under the gaze coming from the other boy who adds after a moment "We'll see about that tomorrow morning, Holmes. I hope you don't think we'll be back here after dinner" he asks and Mycroft shakes his head without saying anything "Good. Tomorrow at 7:30, if you still remember where you left your gym kit."  
Mycroft doesn't mind eating alone as most of the time it means the others are minding their own business but tonight he isn't’ so lucky and he has barely brought the first forkful of food to his lips when two boys from the rugby team sit at the table.  
"Holmes, what is this tutoring business? We need Lestrade on the field come Sunday, you better make sure his assignments are in order, otherwise you will end up enjoying our company much more often than any of us would like." it's the taller one speaking, Fuller if memory serves Mycroft correctly, he can't help but smirk "Lestrade only told you part of our punishment, I see." he comments dryly and watches the other for confirmation of this "While it might seem that our professors have entirely lost their minds, there is genius in their folly and me doing Lestrade's homework won't help anyone if I don't hit my gym goals as well." There's a slight pleasure as he watches the realization dawn on the two of them and leave them speechless, their silence deafening.   
Except it hits him too, he might deny it but Mycroft does worry about what this situation might mean for him, the humiliation baked into the idea of keeping one of the best players off the field because he's too fat to run a lap, no mention of a whole field race.   
The school will never let him live that down if it happens. The thought runs through his mind that… maybe Lestrade had let out the detail to keep the rest of the team from taking it out  
on him but that doesn't sound plausible if he knows Lestrade, the same guy soaked his bed in urine ten days into the school year after all. 

Greg is tying up his shoes when he hears the younger boy's voice "No need to send your teammates to threaten me, Lestrade. Doing your assignments won't get us anywhere."  
The boy just stares, confused "I don't know what you are going on about, Holmes, did something happen?" he asks and suddenly he feels the weight of Mycroft's gaze on him, figuring him out, weighing him and his reply and he remembers why they don't really talk.  
The boy is creepy and unsettling, it feels like he is searching your soul for every little thing and as if he knows you more closely than you know yourself.   
Greg doesn't appreciate that.  
"Holmes, what is wrong with you?" he presses on to pull himself out of the embarrassment, a certain aggressiveness and impatience sharpening his tone until Holmes finally speaks "You didn't even tell them, it must have been your coach then. Some of your younger mates have visited me during dinnertime to ensure I would, I assume, do your homework for you and make sure you will be permitted to play on Sunday, to which I informed them that without my own performance yours would be useless and they left."  
Greg stares at him, feeling a sudden wave of worry although it’s still tampered by his dislike for the boy.  
"Congratulations, Holmes, you played yourself." his retort is bitter, followed by a curse under his breath, sparing a glance when the younger boy's breath itches.   
He doesn't have time for this, he'll deal with the others later.   
Instead he checks Holmes' gear and leads him out to the athletic field around the rugby pitch "I saw you run and it's a disaster, you look like a sack of potatoes rolling down the hill, so for this week we'II stay on some exercises to give your muscles something to do'' he starts without preamble just like Mycroft had with him the day before.   
No reason to pretend either of them enjoy any of this.   
The boy is a bane for any sane person, even the nerds find him boring and despite his innocent act there are reasons why the others keep him at arm's length.   
Still, let it not be said that Greg didn't put his best effort in his task, he instructed Mycroft on the correct form and followed him through every exercise even going so far as to simplify stuff he already thought to be easy.   
When they finally stop an hour and a half later Greg pats the grass beside himself and Mycroft sits down heavily "Going too hard at this will only get you injured, so we'll only work out together Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but your assignment is to walk at a brisk pace every night for half an hour before dinner. Remember I have rugby practice around that time so I'll know if you're keeping to it" he warns sternly.   
When he doesn’t hear a reply he turns to Mycroft, only to find him clearly discouraged, and he hesitates for a moment as the realization hits: the lad is a kid, his own sister is Mycroft’s age.   
He stares ahead again, not meeting his eyes "I'll tell the others I'm the only one who can give you shit about your workouts... They'll listen" he says quietly and he doesn't miss the way Mycroft's frame relaxes, his legs unfolding on the grass.   
A heartbeat of silence.   
"Can you wait until I'm done to shower?"   
Greg doesn't think he has ever heard Holmes be shy about anything.   
He shrugs and gets to his feet "As long as you don't take forever in there." With that he walks away and starts a slow jog on the track while Mycroft leaves the pitch for the bathroom.

Mycroft makes the water scalding to compensate for having to be quick about it.   
He wishes this would be the last time he works out ever in his life, but he knows he won't have any hope to escape it, not with Lestrade as a jailer.   
He said he'd be the only one to torment him on this topic but he knows the others can just double down on all the others.  
At least the weather is chilly enough to justify long pants and a thick hoodie, he won’t have to look at himself while exposing himself to ridicule.  
He dresses quickly and when he walks out he waves politely at Lestrade who’s now stretching nearby, some days he forgets there's 3 years between himself and his schoolmates but seeing the rugby player makes it close to impossible, his body built and grown much further than his own.   
He commands himself away from any thoughts that would complicate his life more than it currently is.  
His breakfast is always the same, he doesn't enjoy changing his routine.   
His school mates have different ideas about it.  
Someone hid the eggs and toast trays on the kitchen trolleys and a plate of fruit with a "suspicious” glaze has been laid out where he was sitting the day before.   
Mycroft feels his cheeks flush, his stomach churning with hunger and nerves.  
In the periphery he sees Fuller and the rest of the younger rugby players start to laugh, whispering among themselves.   
Before Fuller can approach he turns on his heels and leaves the hall, making a beeline for his room, his mind is reeling, shutting out everything and everyone.   
Food is the one thing that makes the days more bearable, they leave him be at meal time, they don't mess with his food, maybe because mocking the fat kid with food gets boring even for someone as stupid as public school boys, but the new arrangement has certainly given them fuel for their obsession with him.   
Through the arcade that leads to the dormitory he shoulder-checks someone but he doesn't bother to apologize or even look up, it’s not important, he can’t stop.   
So he keeps walking instead and makes it up to his dorm room, empty, just his things strewn about in orderly fashion.   
Mycroft sits down, he feels the mattress dip under him, it’s so soft and thick that sometimes he thinks he’ll never get up again. That would be perfectly appropriate for the moment.  
A rush of nausea bends him forward, forcing his head between his knees as he tries to breath and waits for it to pass. It doesn’t want to. He fights it and finally lies back with a soft groan.   
He's never given up, he has either risen to the challenge or ignored them completely.   
Not this time, he can't deal with this.   
He feels the threat of tears but he knows how to control that at least.   
He won't cry because of them.  
What will he do, then?  
It takes him long enough to regain a modicum of composure that he is almost late for History. It's another class Lestrade needs help with. Fantastic. The boy is sitting in the back of the class but Mycroft ignores him entirely and sits front and center as usual.   
His strategy is to pretend the rest of the class doesn't exist and he’s almost pleased with his success, at least until Lestrade stops in front of his desk at the end of the lesson   
"Holmes, can we go over this stuff later? I have no idea how to put together the essay." Mycroft glances up at him sharply and assesses him for a split second, he doesn't seem to imply that he wants Mycroft to write the assignment in his place "Of course, I need to check your math level too, though. What time is your practice?"   
"Five. I' II see you after lunch?" he offers and Mycroft nods "Naturally."  
Ideally they won't study together every day but Mycroft needs to gauge his level before he  
can figure out independent study time.   
If the other is capable of it at all and if his friends won't try to get him to take shortcuts again. He surprises himself when he realizes he has been musing about Lestrade’s future much longer than intended. He'll do whatever the hell he wants anyway. The teachers have lost their mind if they think Mycroft can exert any real control over Lestrade.  
With a blink, he realizes Lestrade has kept talking “Earth to Holmes? What’s got into you?! Just saying, look where you’re going in the halls, you almost made me fall”  
There’s a vague recollection that he has knocked into someone and he apologizes but it sounds hollow even to his own ears. Lestrade will have to make do.   
Mycroft has a free period before his Trigonometry class and he spends it in the library working on a Social Science essay, he's careful to stay away from the windows that look on the arcade and the porch because he doesn't want the pack to find him too easily, but he knows that three of them have a period off as well and it's only a matter of time before they show up.   
This whole affair will only rile them up further.   
His thoughts are getting recursive and he hates it. Makes him feel like he’s trapped in their obnoxious games.  
He stomps his feet and grabs the table until his knuckles turn white until with a deep breath he manages to devote his attention to the essay.  
For lunch he sneaks in the kitchens, one of the ladies knows his dad and if he doesn't  
ask too often she lets him eat there regardless of the time and whether or not he has eaten already, he'll be fine for today at least.   
He uses the staff table and finally gets some food in him, only realizing how hungry he actually is when the fresh bread and the warm soup fill his stomach.

Greg keeps an eye out for Holmes at lunchtime with every intention to advise him about his meal, but when the boy doesn't show up he easily lets go of the thought to spend some time with his friends before he has to leave for the library and see Mycroft anyway.  
Surely he's not as stupid as to stop eating to get better at running in circles.   
When he walks in the library it takes him a moment to locate the desk, he's chosen an even more secluded desk than the day before and Greg fiddles with one of the lamps to make it brighter before he even sets his bag down "You'll go blind studying in the dark all the time" he mutters but Holmes waves him off without even looking up from his papers   
"That's a myth. I need half an hour to finish this essay, fill out these exercises, all the ones you can do. Here's the formulas, you can use them but jot down where you needed it and what you used."  
Greg is taken aback by the orders, there’s no trace of the childish softness of that morning anymore, and the amount of scattered papers would suggest that it shouldn't be possible to finish anything in thirty minutes, let alone an essay.   
Still, Greg is not there to care about his homework and he glances at the exercises instead "I feel like I'm in primary school again..." he mutters to himself but Holmes seems to have some kind of supernatural skills "My brother is in primary school and he doesn't need to take a placement test halfway through the semester" the snipe earns him a glare from Greg before his eyes shift back to the sheets at hand.  
He hates Math and his approach is to start fighting with the exercises, hoping that if he'II wrangle them hard enough they will make a lick of sense.   
When Mycroft closes his notebooks Greg clutches his sheet "Let me try this one again first.", he's ready to fight but the kid just opens another book and leaves Greg to it.  
He tries another couple of problems and when he balls up a random piece of paper he catches Mycroft in a sigh "What is it?" he almost barks in frustration but the other is expressive like a slab of concrete.  
"Trying to put the numbers in random configurations won't help. It's mathematics, not some childish replica of an Enigma code." There's snark there and Greg can't remember how Enigma worked to save his life so it feels even more insulting as he hands over the sheet and sits back, watching and waiting for Holmes to humiliate him.   
He's not new to that anyway.   
What happens instead is that he sits back and the way his lips purse and the pencil balances between his fingertips show complete focus and dedication to his task. He even takes so long that Greg grabs his History book out of boredom and starts to read the pages from earlier that morning.   
He looks up when Mycroft sets down the pencil, tension and embarrassment in the pit of his  
stomach that he’d never admit to "You don't lack of intuition and you vaguely know what rule to apply, but it's clear you never bother to practice and that's a sin neither Math nor Latin can accept, just like your beloved rugby."  
Greg sighs and watches his hands, an annoyed huff rushing out of his lips "Can't you talk like a normal person Holmes?! You constantly sound like a rich poofter from some stupid Wilde book!" his throat burns uncomfortably as he spits the words out and Holmes reply hits him like a slap "Wilde was a nice addition but the rest I've heard before, Lestrade. Can we move on to Math or is your fragile ego in need of a break?" His chest feels hot and his hands are trembling with poorly controlled anger, he hates that a kid makes him feel this way. He grabs his pencil way too tight "Just tell me what I need to do, Holmes."  
It's uncomfortable and exhausting, when Mycroft pushes for another exercise he sets down his pencil "Stop. My brain is fried and the numbers don't make sense anymore. Just stop" he  
asks quietly and the boy sits back "Fine. Have you always been this bad at Math?"   
Greg glares but he doesn't find malice in the question "Always. It's just not my thing like sport isn't yours".  
Mycroft is quiet for a few minutes and Greg doesn't scramble to fill the silence, they are not friends or anything, they are just taking a break. His hands move to grab the smokes from his bag but he stops himself just in time and crosses his arms on the table instead, resting and closing his eyes.  
Mycroft's voice is quiet and carries the notes of his youth when it reaches his ears again, slightly unexpected "Lestrade.. Are you sleeping?" the usual posh affectation is missing, it's  
a surprise. "No" Greg replies without lifting his head, hoping it’ll get him a few more minutes off.  
“What did you not understand about History class?"   
No, the kid is relentless.  
Greg groans and finally sits up "Wait, I wrote it down".  
By the time they are done Greg is almost late for his practice and he starts gathering his things while talking to Mycroft "I didn't see you at lunchtime, have a snack before your walk if you skipped it. Bread and fruit works best."   
He doesn't miss the slow blink of surprise and it looks like it's mixed with something like outrage that he doesn’t know how to place "I didn't skip lunch, don't worry".   
Greg dismisses the clipped tone as the lad being sensitive about food and leaves it at that, leaving the library with a wave.

He sees him half an hour later walking along the track, the school hoodie a little too big on his frame, he keeps the pace up for a while but he stops and rests with his hands on his knees.  
Greg is running up and down the field himself, sweat dripping down his brow and lungs burning, he can't stop to instruct or encourage.   
The coach can and the man is already laughing "Move along, Holmes! Don't make me come over there!" he shouts in his most imposing voice, bordering on bullying.  
The scene is rather chilling as Mycroft straightens up and starts walking again with tight movements, looking like a puppet on strings.   
When Greg looks again at the end of his sprint the coach is approaching.   
He sprints again.   
Stops.   
Mycroft is too slow.   
Another sprint.   
Coach is screaming now.  
He doesn't need to look to know what is happening.   
Greg stops for a moment longer than it is wise and Fuller pushes him "Ignore the baby, Coach is dealing with him!".   
Greg can't do anything to stop the coach but Fuller is fair game and he pushes back, advancing on him until the other boy stumbles back and on his ass "Cut it out, Fuller. You’re fucking dumber than a bag of rocks!" he shouts, hoping the stupid idea he’s just head will work.   
It starts working, it riles him up.   
Fuller shouts back and Howard jumps into it without a second thought, grabbing Greg by his shirt "What the fuck was that?! Say it again, I'll bash your head in, Lestrade".  
Idiots, the lot of them.   
Greg balls his fists and tucks his chin just as the open hand impacts with his nape and it's followed swiftly by a punch to his cheek. The pain is sharp, his ears are ringing, but it dulls down enough for Greg to hear the coach’s shouts move over to them.   
It worked.   
He shrugs the two off of him with a shove "Are you lads out of your fucking mind?!" he shouts back just in time to let the coach take it out on them.   
Bloody morons.   
When he looks over at where Mycroft was he's already made himself scarce. Good on him.

It's useless. He's never going to catch a break.   
He tears his clothes off the moment he steps in his room, his thoughts clash with each other and the wish to burrow in bed is overwhelming.   
Yet he's not going to let them get to him.   
He washes his face, combs back his bright ginger hair and dresses back in his uniform.   
He is more impeccable than usual, his tie is straight and the knot tight enough to suffocate. He doesn't stop by the food hall and sets up shop in the study hall instead, shutting everything not concerning Cicero out and far away from his focus.   
He reads and takes notes and translates and pretends that the last two hours have never happened.   
The murmurs and voices and shuffles of papers rise and fall with the ticking minutes until the custodian turns off the main lights and he's forced to pack his things and leave.  
In the morning he uses the communal showers before anyone else gets up, again his dress and hair are perfect, the uniform is tailored and it dissimulates pretty well certain defects.   
It's an armor.   
Mycroft settles in the empty History classroom with his book, waiting for the professor.   
He has already laid out in his mind the argument he's going to bring and to his ears it sounds perfect: Dorner can go back to helping Lestrade and Mycroft can get an exemption for medical reasons. Surely no one will bat an eye.  
Wilson doesn't agree, not unless the school nurse certifies Mycroft's hardships and they both know that's not going to happen.   
It's the first time Wilson kicks Mycroft out of his classroom instead of keeping to his usual kind and understanding approach.  
In the food hall he sweeps the room, no one seems interested in him: the usual small groups of pupils doing some last minute assignment, the older students lounging in with their coffee, a couple of stray boys catch some shuteye, forehead resting on their arms.   
Just like Lestrade had done. Mycroft must have been pure torture to listen to.   
No use thinking of that.  
An uneventful breakfast is all he could have wished for and apparently he's granted that small mercy because he moves onto his Chemistry class without trouble and then on to Latin, but when he leaves that classroom Lestrade is waiting for him leaning against the wall and clearly furious.   
Mycroft freezes, surely he can't blame him for having left the walk the day before.   
As the spike of anxiety wears off a little he realizes the boy has almost a black eye, a dark red, almost purple bruise along his cheekbone.   
Was he involved in the fight on the field the previous night? Was it his fault?   
No matter, Lestrade will tell him what is going on anyway. "I know you have a free period, Holmes. Come with me right now"  
Mycroft doesn't hesitate to follow; it's not the moment to argue with someone double his size  
and apparently very cross with him directly for reasons unknown.   
They leave the building, Mycroft has to jog a little to keep up the pace and watches the scenery change as they wind through the school grounds and find themselves in a clearing in front of a hut; the building is run down but the lock is new and the clearing has been swept, leaving the path to and from it clear. Maintenance area.   
Greg turns on Mycroft in a swift motion and he steps back, observing the other. The frown is deep, his arms hang at his sides and his hands are open if tense, his shoulders are slightly hunched.   
"Wilson called me in his office earlier. Asked me what I had done to you, Holmes. Because you went to him this morning and begged like a baby to end this thing. He looked at me like I'm a bloody... I don't even know what!”   
Mycroft hates that he cowers in the face of the older boy’s wrath but there’s no other way to describe the little backward step his body takes.  
“But that is just what you do isn't it, Holmes?” Lestrade’s voice has taken on a sickeningly sweet tone even without abandoning the rough pitch of his anger “You are polite. You are smart. You are educated. The teachers love you. You are innocent and a genius. I must be the bad guy, the poor idiot who’s good at rugby but is for all intent and purposes a little savage creature.” his voice raises steadily until he shouts the last few words and with that he takes another step forward “Poor you.” he mocks, raising a finger and stabbing the air inches from Mycroft’s chest “Fuck that. Given the chance you'd be just as cruel as they are to you!"  
The words hit Mycroft like a torrent and he can't do anything, his heart is fluttering wildly making his fingertips numb, his ears ringing while his brain works through the rational information about panic.   
He wants to curl up more but he straightens instead and puts all his effort into steadying his voice "I didn't say anything about you to Wilson."   
He has failed miserably and his voice feels wet like he's about to cry, he balls his fist and digs his nails in his palms.  
"You didn't have to, idiot. Did you cry in front of him, too?" Lestrade taunts him, his eyes taking on a mean light.  
Blood rushes to his head. He knows his cheeks are burning now. He hates how he looks when that happens. It's humiliating.  
"You know I didn't have to because you are the one who pissed my bed!" he shouts and for a moment he's sure he's going to get his nose broken but Lestrade kicks a rock instead "You think I liked that?" he shouts in return "You think a scholarship kid gets to do what he wants in this place?!" Mycroft jolts back but Lestrade steps forward, relentless now in his outrage "And don’t act innocent about that, either, Holmes. You had to take your revenge. You had to go on and deduce me in front of half the school. My father is dead and you, little snot-nosed brat, used him just to get one over me." his voice is calm now but Mycroft feels like he's trapped underwater in a frozen lake. "You were wrong, by the way. He hung himself in the attic."  
Mycroft stares, he vaguely senses the time and silence stretching between them and Lestrade's breathing, heavy and slow. It paces the seconds between them. It reminds him of the reality of the truth that just landed on him.   
"The coach screamed at me last night" he murmurs in the end, voice small and devoid of sentiment, it’s the only thing he manages to say.   
"How do you think I got this?" he points at the bruise.  
Mycroft hesitates but he has to say it "Thank you. Does it hurt?"   
It must be the most stupid question in history but Lestrade doesn't seem to mind "Not really, no. It distracted him and Fuller and Howard ran laps enough for a lifetime.” the smug smile is weaker than usual but Mycroft can see it’s genuine “Do you really want to stop being each other's tutor?"  
With the adrenaline waning Mycroft feels his legs turn to jelly and his head spin a little.   
He takes a deep breath and slowly and deliberately walks over to a bunch of crates by the cabin, sitting down and planting his feet firmly in the ground while considering his answer.  
Lestrade takes the cue and walks over to sit on another crate.   
"No. And even if I asked Professor Wilson it wasn't because of you. But you know what they are doing to me. If I didn't know people in the kitchen..." he leaves the sentence hanging and to his surprise Lestrade is clearly confused.   
He hesitantly fills in the other about the new special brand of Hell he's suffering and they are left in silence again until Lestrade relaxes and for the first time Mycroft sees his genuine smile "Then it means that we'll be eating together. And for your walks you can come behind here. That path loops back to the dormitories."   
Mycroft is jealous of his easy-going demeanor. Maybe he can learn.  
“Listen, I'm not top of the ladder by any means, but in four years I've learned to navigate this hellscape well enough. Alright?" with that Mycroft realizes he hasn't replied.  
A blush creeps on his cheeks "Yes, that would be agreeable, Gregory." he says quietly and the boy raises an eyebrow "You do know my name after all, Holmes" he teases goodnaturedly. It's the first time it has happened to Mycroft. A nice joke. He chuckles. "Where did Mycroft come from, anyway?" he looks up at Lestrade and then shrugs "Peculiar family tradition, my father is Sieger, my younger brother is Sherlock" an explanation which makes Lestrade raise his eyebrows "Unlucky."   
It earns him a shove from Mycroft but for once he’s not worried about retaliation.  
Mycroft feels a certain weight growing on his chest as they stay quiet, a certain embarrassment over his misguided request to the teacher "I'm sorry for what happened with Wilson. I misjudged our positions and failed to consider that the coach might not be the only one carrying a certain prejudice. I'll clear things up with the professor before dinner."  
Mycroft watches Lestrade sigh and look away, something he isn't saying, "I wish I could do the same for you and the coach but he screams at anyone. You'll just have to be good at running" Mycroft takes it at face value and kicks a rock, "I hate running"   
"Tough luck. We need to go now, I wanna show you the path, it was for the groundskeeper before they had a Jeep..."  
Mycroft looks at him when he hesitates "Will you snitch if I smoke?" a glare from Mycroft  
is all that it takes for him to pull the cigarette and light it up before they get walking.  
Mycroft follows the steps of the older boy, the trees are thick but the small trail is clear and it's in all a big arch around the main building and down to the dormitories.  
"What do you have now?" "Literature. You have Math"   
He smiles as Gregory rolls his eyes but his attention is caught by his own reflection in one of the windows, his cheeks are flushed and his hair is sticking to his forehead slightly "I need to go wash my face and hands. I'll see you in the library."

Greg watches the young boy go. He's not ashamed of his anger and he's not embarrassed to have shown his hurt, but he's sure the boy can't understand. Not really. They come from different worlds. The thoughts keep buzzing about his mind and the Math lesson makes even less sense than it usually does. Mycroft will sort it out anyway. Maybe this arrangement is not too bad.

The days go by, they are not perfect by any means and both of them pretend like that  
talk in the clearing didn't happen.  
The following Friday he earns his first 6 in Math without copying from anyone, his first thought is to run to Mycroft the moment he's done with Professor Butler.   
They should both have the period off. His first trip is to the library, but the librarian hasn't seen Mycroft in two days. He's not in the study hall either.   
Greg starts to get worried, the excitement turns into an uncomfortable knot of anxiety deep in his stomach.   
He grabs Webster but he's seen Mycroft leave the classroom with everybody else and nothing more.  
The trial is that afternoon, Mycroft didn't seem too bothered anymore, he was running fine.  
Thoughts get louder as he runs up the stairs to his room to find it empty.   
The clearing.   
Greg sprints.   
He doesn't care about the mud staining his trousers or caking up his shoes.   
He doesn't even have an umbrella for the rain pouring on him. It doesn't matter.   
At first glance the clearing is empty, his breathing heavy and the anxiety clouding his judgement until he notices the small cabin door open just a crack.   
The anxiety mounts again as he steps to the door and he opens it with a slam, his heart in his throat up to the moment he hears and sees Mycroft sitting on an old bench.   
His legs give out and he sits beside Mycroft, resting back against the wall, his eyes closed. Mycroft's voice is slightly higher "Gregory what... Did you get worried?!" he asks, now clearly puzzled. A split second. "Oh.”  
Greg finally opens his eyes again and shoves Mycroft lightly "Give me a heart attack, will you?!" his voice is still a little out of breath and choked   
"I couldn't find you anywhere, what are you even doing here?".   
Now that he looks more closely Mycroft is pale and a bit sickly even in the dim light of the cabin, Greg reaches out to grab his chin and tilt his face toward the light, his eyes  
are red rimmed and tired but before Greg can check his forehead Mycroft pulls away, fixing  
Greg with a hard glare "I'm sick. I can't take the test tonight."   
His tone is stiff and Mycroft would clearly like to think that could be the end of it.   
As if Greg would let him "You just have a bad case of nerves and there's no way I'm missing my game because you have the nerves" he says, glaring in return "If I took my math test and passed then you can run two laps."   
Suddenly Mycroft grins and Greg is almost about to gloat for his encouragement skill until Mycroft asks excitedly "You passed your test?! Congratulations! How well did you do?"  
This was the original reason, wasn't it? Why he had been looking for Mycroft, if it weren't for the news he wouldn't even know Mycroft wasn't in his usual places.   
But he's here now, he might as well do his best. "I passed by a few points but I didn't copy from anyone so it's technically my best Math grade in forever" he grins and Mycroft smiles back "You'll be a lot better by the time the exams roll around" he says assuredly and Greg raises an eyebrow "I thought this would be until the end of the semester"   
The glare he receives in return is more than withering, bordering on offensive "As if I'd let you waste my work for a few short months of tutoring more"   
Now it's Greg's turn to glare but a small knot of worry he didn't know he had melts in the pit of his stomach.   
"Anyway. You'll be fine this afternoon, you got a lot better and you trained for it, no?" He hears Mycroft sigh "Yes but I'm feeling sick, I can't run if I'm sick. It's not that I don't want to” Greg can see when there's not much to talk about and he nudges Mycroft instead   
"Let's make it back or you'll be late for your class" he gets up and pulls Mycroft by the jacket, watches as the boy swats the dirt off his trousers and fixes his shirt. It looks like a knight donning his armor.   
Stepping out, Greg lights himself a cigarette only for Mycroft to pipe up "Can I try one?". Greg regards him, raises an eyebrow and the laughter is born deep in his belly, he bumps Mycroft away a few feet, feeling the difference between their physicality as a stark contrast "No way, Holmes. You're too young. If someone made my sister smoke I'd bash their nose in, I'm applying the same criteria" he replies with ease and Mycroft rolls his eyes "I'm not your little brother!" he protests all the same "Might as well be. Smoking is bad for you, end of story." he decides to say a little more firmly.   
Mycroft doesn't need to know that Greg himself picked it up from an older boy just like he tried now. This school is toxic. Mycroft doesn't need another of its traditions perpetuated.

There is a peculiar merit to be found in his partnership with Lestrade.   
Mycroft is learning the impact his actions can have on other people even when he thinks he's acting solo.   
Greg is not shy about it. He seems to somewhat revel in it or at the very least find closure and drive forward. He doesn't scheme, he doesn't hold grudges but he doesn't take it lying down, maybe that's where his popularity lies despite his socio-economic status being so different than many others.   
He would have never thought that walking away could have such an effect on Gregory, they are not friends or even mates but to Gregory they are on this path together and while they might fight it's fundamental they both get to the end and in the best shape possible. Including keeping Mycroft from bad habits like smoking. He doesn't like to be reminded of his age gap but he's also mature enough to accept the reasoning behind it.   
Still he's convinced that some nicotine would really help him calm down for the trial. Not that he'd admit out loud to his anxiety. It's annoying enough that Lestrade seems to be able to read him like an open book.  
At lunch he can barely stomach some soup and toasted bread, he just hates everything about the sensation and he finds himself wondering about Gregory and his anxiety when faced with equations.   
He shakes his head, hiding a chuckle from his companion in his glass of water. Gregory is going on about his test with one of his friends who pretend Mycroft doesn't exist. Not that Mycroft minds.   
Focusing all his attention on a stupid social science essay gets him through the next two hours and he doesn't comment about Lestrade setting up shop beside him with just a comic book. Any other day he'd be reading that in his dormitory or in the rec room.   
He's just as nervous as Mycroft. It doesn't cross his mind they might be worrying about different things.  
Mycroft has to admit he got a bit more comfortable with his gym kit than he was two weeks earlier, he puts it on in his room and wears his tracksuit on top.   
Gregory is waiting for him in the building entrance and they fall in step "Remember, don't sprint in the beginning, keep it steady. He'll yell at you but your pace is fine for the time you have to make. Don't let him get to you." he speaks quietly in his ear and Mycroft feels like he is in a cheap TV sports movie; Greg has told him those things a thousand times but it's good to have a reminder.   
"I'll take care of the boys but I've already warned them and they've stopped finding you funny a week ago anyway. Lee said his brother was like you last year, chubby and all and then he grew almost a foot all of a sudden and he's going to be taller than him." he shrugs to which Mycroft rolls his eyes “I know how puberty works" he remarks and stops when they step on the pitch.   
The coach isn't there yet and Mycroft takes his jacket off. He focuses on the familiar elements, sways on the balls of his feet, the track is just a tad springy under his soles, the sun is low and he can barely feel its warmth through the clouds. The air smells humid, the track might be slimy. No leaning forward. Slower curves. Falling on his ass would be a disaster. He jumps on the spot to keep the chill at bay until the coach walks out of the lockers and onto the pitch.  
The man stops in front of Mycroft, the boy is forced to look up as the height difference borders on humiliating, he's built like a defence player with broad shoulders and thick thighs, only aging has robbed him of some of his muscle turning him in a slender unmovable menace.   
"Holmes. Your 800M test a month ago was abysmal, my mother could run it faster than you did and she's blind, the poor woman. Now you are to make it under 5:30, which is still abysmal but if I had asked for more in two weeks I would have had to play without Lestrade and we can't have that. Don't stand there and look at me, take off that tracksuit, I don't care if it's cold, your fat should insulate you just fine! On your marks. Someone -other than poor Lestrade- wants to show the piggy how it's done?"   
Mycroft feels his cheek burning, his hands shake and his legs barely even have bones. He's not going to let the man get to him. He'll show him he's wrong each and every time.   
He abandons his trousers on the rail and fixes his shorts as he lines up on the marks. Fuller and Howard flank him but Mycroft stands tall, their time is irrelevant, it's just a stupid way to mock him and throw him off.   
He has studied the rhythm he needs to keep like it's a mathematical equation. He'll do that regardless of his body or the weather or any idiot thrown his way.The whistle blows and Mycroft starts counting in his head, stomping his feet on the track to keep himself from slipping. Fuller and Howard jeer and step in front of him, they try to break his rhythm. At some point Greg's voice cuts into it, he knows what Mycroft is doing and he seems determined to help him. It's a good lifeline. He's counting while cheering.  
Feet on the ground, the recoil bounces through him, breathe out. Breathe in, feet on the ground and the first lap is through.   
Greg shouts the time. It's fine.   
He's a bit less fine. His lungs burn. Fuller comes this close to tripping him. He leans forward a little, the rhythm gets harder to follow. He's not as coordinated.   
Greg shouts harder and calls the rhythm again. It's a good voice. It's strong and gravely and it resonates with the steps. Last stretch. Foot in front of the other.   
And the whistle blows again. "5:00 minutes, Holmes. Go get a shower. Fuller, Howard. Sprint. Lestrade, you did a good job."   
There's protest coming from the two idiots and laughter from the rest of the team but the first thing he sees are Greg's shoes as the other comes and pats his back "Now we just have to repeat today until the end of the year." Mycroft looks up to see Greg grinning and he rubs his face "That's for tomorrow, Lestrade. Now I'm going to shower and then pick up where you left off on that Doctor Who Magazine quiz." he chuckles and Greg wags his finger at him with a playful glare "In pencil, Holmes! Or buy your own!"


End file.
